We were going to make orange chicken and rice for dinner the other night.
On my way home from work, I talked to two of my daughters, who thought it sounded delicious. I might have salivated a little bit about the thought of biting into it when dinner came around.
When I arrived home, though, my oldest daughter said we had a “big problem.” She vetoed dinner. She had orange chicken for lunch, she said. She refused to eat it.
I stood there dumbfounded, unsure of what to do or say next. Do they really serve orange chicken at school, or is she bluffing? How is this a “big problem”? Nothing in my life had prepared me for one stubborn person derailing my plans.
Except someone had, I realized.
Having kids is like hanging out with your most selfish friend from your 20s, except you have to do it all the time.
We’ve all had that friend from our formative adult years whose drama dominated everything.
Want to go out? Sure. Your whole group agrees on your regular place. Then this person jumps in about how dull that place is and demands somewhere different. Before you know it, you’re trying to dance to industrial music with its hisses and pops and weird percussion.
That’s one of my kids every weekend. I utter the words “this is supposed to be fun for you” weekly when one person whines about a fairly cool place we’re headed.
Even making plans was a challenge with that selfish friend a few years back. Everything revolved around their schedule. They couldn’t go out until kind of late because of this thing they had to do. Then they needed to get back early because of this cool thing we’re all going to do tomorrow, except they forgot to invite you.
Cue a typical school night now, when I’m waiting to run my children back from whatever event the calendar says I should. I’m stuck sitting in my car when the group gets out 10 minutes late, sitting there staring ahead and wondering what happened to my social life.
Those friends in my 20s used to be able to change my mood for the worse on a dime, too. I could have the most wonderful day of my life, full of interesting stories and optimism. Then you met up with your group, only to have one person moping because their neighbor’s cat — the one with a missing leg and a lazy eye — died, and that made them so sad. And suddenly you’re sad too, mourning a cat supposedly cut down in the prime of its life.
Fast forward to today, when some argument during second recess means your daughter can’t be friends with so-and-so anymore, and that makes them really sad, even though you know they’ll both forget about the tiff by Friday.
Or maybe you recall these stories of them lashing out at your insecurities, nearly burning the place down when they forgot they put something on the stove or criticized something you considered a personality strength.
You think back to why you hung out with that person in the first place. Maybe they were really funny. Maybe they helped you through a dark time. Maybe they helped you realize you liked dancing to industrial music.
That’s when you realize it’s OK to have that person in your life, especially when they’re your children. That day is on the way when you’ll miss their life dominating yours. You’ll miss the quirks and unpredictability of their teenage angst. And you’ll realize they’re out there in the real world, driving their friends crazy with their self focus instead of you.
And you’ll just be left at home, probably eating orange chicken and rice, and thinking maybe it wasn’t so great after all.
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